We must wash out those stains up stairs, and burn the cloth. As they left Florence, dying men and women still scrabbled through the streets, screams emanating from the rows of houses, beggars running up to the horses, sick children in their arms, their eyes bleeding, their noses running, begging to join them in their journey out. "Is my house to be made a receptacle for all your natural children, Sir? Answer me that.
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